


Safe & Secure

by ShrimpZilla



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShrimpZilla/pseuds/ShrimpZilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan adjusts to being outside the Circle while growing fond of the Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe & Secure

            Mages touch each other more, she realizes shortly after leaving the Circle. She sees it in the towns and villages they pass through on the way to the Conclave. She’ll hold her friends’ hand, have an arm around their shoulder, adjust their robes and hair and pack. They all stand close to each other, breathing the same air even though there’s a whole world of space. Because they aren’t used to it and it’s too much with the way the openness just presses down on their senses.

            Solas is the only one that touches her in Haven. He holds her hand when he examines her mark and though the touch is fleeting it is a relief. There is no intimacy between them but her skin misses the warmth of other mages and her body feels exposed when she stands alone and empty on all sides. She looks at Cassandra and Varric, doesn’t know how warriors and rogues touch in friendship. They don’t seem to mind the space between bodies, the cold air, the horizon that spreads forever. So she keeps her hands to herself, twining her fingers together or holding her own shoulders when she feels the need.

            When she gets her own horse she visits it in the stables often. She holds its neck with her arms and rubs her cheek against its snout. It whinnies and knickers in response to her affections. She loves it. It’s _hers_ , a word she hasn’t been able to use since she was sent away. The warmth of its breath and its body are refreshing as she works the tangle from its mane.

            “That’s a very fine horse,” the Commander’s voice says. She peers over the broad neck of the creature in question, sees him standing by the stall in his armor. “I hope I didn’t surprise you.”

“You didn’t.” He hadn’t. She had heard his footsteps crunching in the snow, muffled on the hay. She knows how to recognize the sound of him walking. His boots shift heavier when he steps, his gait is harder as if he always has serious purpose in his destination. She’s lived among Templars for most of her life. She knows how to tell one armored footfall from another. The Commander might not be a Templar anymore but he still stands like one, walks like one, holds his sword and his shield like one.

            “What’s his name?” He asks as he reaches out a hand to stroke her horse’s neck. She walks around, opens a treat filled hand to the animal’s mouth, and watches the Commander’s soothing touch.

            “Knight-Commander Jerome,” she answers, ducking her head a little to hide a smile at what she knows is a silly joke. He surprises her then by chuckling.

            “Riding the Knight-Commander? Not a fantasy of mine.” His tone is dry but the laughter is still present. She presses her free hand up the side of Jerome’s face to rest beneath his ear.

            “Maybe there’s a horse out there called Knight-Captain Cullen,” she offers. She regrets it. It sounds like she’s implying something that she doesn’t want to imply. She opens to her mouth explain or retract but he’s already laughing, not chuckling but _laughing_. She watches the smile lines around his eyes crinkle. Her heart does something strange and her chest feels tighter. She can’t explain it.

            “I highly doubt it,” he says at last. She smiles because he’s still smiling. “If Varric is telling the truth then my dour expression scared away children and puppies.” She laughs and his smile seems to shift.

            “Maybe if you smiled more?” She offers.

            “I’m smiling now.” Something seems to settle as she looks at him. He is still smiling, but softer now as he just looks at her. The world doesn’t feel so large in that moment. She could almost be back in the Circle, safe and tucked in. She wonders if it’s because she’s standing here under a Templar’s gaze. But he isn’t really looking at her like a Templar would a mage. He’s just looking. Warmly. And she wants to reach out and touch him. Their hands are very close, when they wandered so near on Jerome she doesn’t know, and it would be a simple thing to place her fingertips to his. She swallows and glances away. “Well, uh, I only came to check on the horses. I should really... get back to work.” He pats Jerome twice, offers her a lingering smile, and is on his way.

            The world opens up again but she doesn’t feel cold; she feels warm.

 

\--

 

            She stares at the statue of Andraste that looms before her in the service and wonders. Why her? She hasn’t been to a mass since before the Circle and can’t remember if she had ever been to one of her own volition. She remembers the words haltingly, the prayers coming out as an uneven mutter. She wishes she was in the back with Dorian and Sera. Ironically both the Tevinter altus and the Elven rogue are better Andrastians than she. But at least between them she wouldn’t feel so inadequate. Here in the front she’s positioned between Cassandra and Commander Cullen, two of the most faithful people she’s ever known.

            They join hands for the final prayer and she feels stiff and awkward. Cassandra’s grasp is strong and steady, like everything the other woman does. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that she grips the hand that holds the rift mark covered only by a thin layer of gauzy fabric. The Commander’s hand consumes hers and without his gloves she can feel the dry warmth of his skin. His touch is light and in direct contrast to the scars she can read across his knuckles.

            She stays silent, too much fumbling having left her self-conscious beneath the heavy eyes of the Chantry statues. She tries to picture what Andraste had seen in her, tries to imagine if maybe it had all been a mistake. There were others at the Conclave and here in Haven who would be better suited to the task of being Herald. Why should she have survived when everyone else died? Why had the Maker marked her? What could she possibly achieve?

            She looks up from the corner of her eye when she feels the Commander’s hand tighten around hers. He isn’t looking at her, his gaze never faltering from Mother Giselle as the congregation prays. She breathes a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, twists her hand to twine her fingers through his. She watches surreptitiously as the corner of his lips twitch in a smile. He rubs a calloused thumb along the line of her hand. It is a comfort and she wonders how much he even realizes.

            If a Templar—an ex-Templar—can believe that a mage might be the Herald of Andraste then she can believe it as well. She feels secure, suddenly, and more certain than she has in a long time. She squeezes his hand in return and listens to the prayer that fills the Chantry. Her chest feels open but in a good way that she isn’t sure she has every experienced before this moment. Belief fills her. Everything will be all right.

            “Thank you,” she mumbles afterwards when they’ve all dropped each other’s hands and are filing out. The Commander looks at her knowing and playful.

            “I should be the one thanking you. To pray next to the Herald of Andraste is a great honor.”

            “Even when she forgets the words?”

            “Yes.” She smiles because she knows he means it.

\--

 

            Every part of her is in pain. The Anchor throbs. Her sides stab at her sharply from what she thinks might be broken ribs. Her ankle protests when she steps down on it. The cold bites everything else until she feels like her skin is made of pins. She holds herself to try to keep from falling apart and keeps moving. If she stops she’ll just stop and she can’t do that. Not after everything that’s happened. Not after failing them so fully at Haven.

            She stumbles, once so badly that she finds herself rolling down an incline without the ability to stop herself. She hits the flat of it, groans pathetically, and tries to curl up into a ball for warmth and despair. Her ribs scream pain through every outlet and she supposes she is grateful. She flounders to her feet, overturning the snow around her until she can see a discarded campfire. She stands over it with her pain addled and cold slowed mind lagging behind it takes a moment to process. The survivors have been here. Wolves howl from somewhere too nearby to be ignored and she presses onwards.

            By the time she reaches evidence of another campsite she has almost lost feeling in her entire body. It’s a bit of a blessing. She can step solidly on her ankle now except for the fact that she’s shaking so badly each step is a test in her balance. Her teeth knock together and the sound it practically a relief. Aside from the wind and the wolves she has heard nothing. The night is empty. At the second campsite she bends and blows as shuddering breath on the embers. There is a dull glow but little else. Desperate for any sort of warmth she grabs them in her hands, feels nothing except a tickling of sensation, and stumbles away.

            She can feel tears and snot frozen to her face. She’s been crying from the cold on her eyes and the fear in her heart. She tries to talk to herself to keep her mind busy but her lips won’t work and it hurts her teeth too much to let the cold air coat them. She dropped the embers at some point, her fingers unable to flex tightly enough. She imagines that she’s back in the Circle, warm and safe and surrounded by the people she cares about. She sees her friends in her mind’s eye, pictures smiling faces and welcoming arms. They hug her and hold her even as she falls to her knees in the snow for what she can only surmise will be the last time.

            “She’s here! I’ve found her!” The wind whispers. She wants to laugh. Dorian and Sera and Varric are in her mind now too. They’ll all live in the Circle together. Vivienne is happy to be back. Solas and Iron Bull, Cassandra and Blackwall too. Leliana and Josephine will fit right in. Everyone healthy and nothing will go wrong because the Templars are protecting them because Commander Cullen…

            Her mind drifts. She shudders as she is wrapped in something warm, lifted from the snow. She can’t see, her eyes closed or her vision failed. She hears praying. Muffled and scared. A man’s voice. A deep rumble that travels to her frostbitten toes. She presses herself into the warmth, feels fur and fabric, smells oil and incense and musk. Something brushes hair from her face. Hot flesh on her forehead. She whimpers and blackness overcomes her.

 

\--

 

            The bar erupts in a fit of uproarious laughter as the Iron Bull hits his stride in the story. She stinks down into her seat because they’ve been drinking and she doesn’t think she’s ever had anything as strong as this. Her face feels warm. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Things are good. After all, they just killed a Maker-damned dragon.

            “I don’t remember hearing this part when you briefed us in the war room,” Cullen leans in and whispers. His breath ghosts over her ear and she shivers. His voice feels like the whiskey did going down. A hot streak that explodes into an all encompassing warmth throughout her body. She giggles at her thoughts, at her drunkenness, and at the answer that springs to her lips.

            “I think I blacked out from fear.” She grips the arm he’s using to balance himself on the edge of her chair with. Out of his armor for the night her fingers can feel the hard lines of muscle in his bicep. She squeezes, maybe because she’s drunk and disbelieved or maybe because she’s horny and has no shame. She thinks maybe he doesn’t notice because he doesn’t say anything or give her a dirty look. “One moment Bull was saying that it looked like we were in dragon territory and the next there was a dragon and he was running at it and I’m pretty sure I nearly peed my pants.”

            “If anything happened to you I wouldn’t forgive myself.” He’s still speaking with his face practically right up against hers. She looks down at his lips when she realizes, takes in the scar and the stubble and the way the tip of his tongue peeks out to wet them. She looks away, takes another swig of her drink in an attempt to fight the groan of sexual frustration she feels building in her. The alcohol steadies her. She looks back, grins, and runs her hand up to rest on his shoulder. His eyes follow the movement of her touch, his mouth parts but he says nothing.

            “Oo, what’s goin’ on over here, eh?” Sera pops up from nowhere. Beneath the table? Why? How? She leans heavily against the table, bringing the Inquisitor’s free arm over her shoulders. Cullen leans back startled and red faced. “Secrets, secrets ain’t no fun unless you tell me too.”

            “There’s no secret,” Cullen insists. “The Inquisitor was just wishing me a good night. I’m afraid I’ve had enough fun for one evening.” The voices at the table boo him but he takes it in good stride. She looks up at him, her chest tight with unexplored longing and her head fogged with drinking. He smiles. “Inquisitor.” He leaves.

            “You don’t ever say g’night to me like that,” Sera states as she clambers over her lap to get into Cullen’s vacated seat. “Looked like you two were ‘bout to, well, you know.” She snorts and through a series of hand gestures makes her point far cleared than words might have. The Inquisitor lowers her forehead to the edge of the able.

            “I don’t think the Commander does things like that,” she said though her cheeks were burning as her brain provided potentially contradictory evidence in the form of illicit images.

            “Well, piss on him then. That stuff’s fun.” Sera cackles and swipes Cullen’s unfinished drink and the Inquisitor’s. Maybe drinking just wasn’t for her, the Inquisitor thinks as the room spins.

 

\--

 

            She’s fidgeting in her armor as she makes her way back to the war room to report on what she had found. The chest plate is dented and while she can still move and breathe everything is uncomfortable and tight. Josephine is still in her office collecting papers and when the Inquisitor gets to the room only the Commander is within. He lifts his eyes from the map and smiles at her with something akin to boyish enthusiasm on his typically serious features. She lifts a hand in greeting and then uses it to tug at the ruined metal of her military grade robes.

            “Is everything all right?” He inquires. She shakes her head and takes in a shallow breath. She had wanted to just go the rest of the way to Skyhold in regular robes but Cassandra had insisted it was too dangerous with all the cultists hanging about.

            “My armor is… all messed up.” She tries to adjust herself comfortably within. She had had it sitting better earlier but with the horseback ride she was back to being discombobulated.

            “Do you need help taking it off?” There is a pause and Cullen’s hand goes to the back of his neck. “I mean, you just need to take off your top… um, if it isn’t comfortable…Maker.” She doesn’t even care the implications. She nods and puts her own hands to the clasp behind her neck. Cullen is behind her in a few quick strides. He takes a moment before she feels him brush her hair away from her neck delicately. She feels the slightest brushing of his skin against hers and realizes he paused to remove his gloves. To make it easer, she imagines but can’t help the way her stomach feels. The clasps behind her neck and around her shoulder blades loosen. She puts her hands on her chest so it doesn’t clatter to the floor. He eases it off. “Can you breathe better now?” He asks, taking a step to the side so that he can take the plate from her hands. He holds the armor in one hand, the other hovering above the small of her back.

            “No,” she says airily. His eyebrows rise in concern. “I mean, yes,” she corrects quickly. He smiles at her in relief and then maybe catches the look in her eye, realizes how close their bodies are, feels the pull of what she hopes is mutual attraction. His face isn’t boyish and eager anymore. It’s lined and rough and staring down her with an intensity she doesn’t know if she’s ever seen. His hand makes contact with her back. She finds that it is still hard to breathe.

            “Inquisitor,” he rasps and she’s about to throw all the caution away and lean up and smash her lips to his and take him there on the table and that’s it she can’t take it anymore she just wants to feel his skin pressed hot and tight against hers. But he hears footsteps eagerly approaching and jumps back. His cheeks red as he stammers, “should really be wearing higher quality armor than this.” She blinks and world returns to focus. Her heart pounds heavy in her ears. Leliana and Josephine enter. The meeting starts. She catches the Commander looking at her three times. It’s hard to repress her smile.

 

\--

 

            Cullen enters her tent and blushes furiously when he sees that Dorian is already present. She wonders what excuses he’s coming up with for entering without announcing himself and for being in casual clothes. Dorian sighs and lifts himself from his seat, rolling his eyes theatrically. “I know when I’m not wanted.” She laughs at his overdramatic exit and at the sheer level of tension that dissolves off of Cullen when he realizes he doesn’t need an excuse. The relief swells quickly into something else and he’s holding her face in his hands and kissing her deeply. She throws her arms around his neck and feels him lift her from her seat easily. She wraps her legs around his waist and squeals when he hefts her higher.

            “I’m glad I was able to come with you for this,” he states when they break. He lowers himself onto the floor and she adjusts to sit easier in his lap. He nuzzles into her neck, kissing so lightly it gives her chills. She runs her hands through his hair and over the exposed skin she can manage. She doesn’t think she’ll ever have a enough of touching him.

            “You aren’t nervous I might be a distraction to you in battle?” She teases with only an ounce of real concern. He laughs against her clavicle and the sound is enough to send her body spinning.

            “Are you worried I might be?” Cullen is a Commander not a common soldier. She knows that he is a capable fighter. Even without the lyrium to augment his abilities she trusts that he will be more than able to handle himself. It’s herself that she doesn’t trust. She worries that she’ll keep her eyes too much on his safety than on the task at hand.

            “What if I can’t stop looking at your butt while we’re in battle?” She soothes her real concern over with a joke. Cullen rumbles a noise of desire, his fingers massaging her shoulders and back.

            “I’ll be certain to keep my butt out of your line of sight.” He kisses her again and she melts.

            “What if,” she begins once they have separated and his attention is on kissing her shoulders and chest, “I am so overcome with lust by how strong and amazing you are that I drag you to the ground and start making love to you in the middle of the battle?” This time he pulls back and grins playfully at her. His golden eyes are dark with lust and plans. She bits her lip.

            “Well, there are worse way to die,” he offers. He tugs her shirt off and grinds his hips to hers. “We can try to get it out of our system tonight.” It’s skin on skin and heat on heat and finally she feels the way she thinks a person should. The fresh air doesn’t trap her and neither does the Tower’s walls. She’s free in his arms, in his heart. She’s safe and secure and she offers him the same solace.

When she touches him she knows she isn’t alone.


End file.
